DDX, With Feeling
by Trinitas
Summary: When PPTH turns musical, Cuddy plays de facto Greek chorus, Fellows 1.0 treat a patient no one cares about, and House and Wilson consider the line between friendship and romance. In the style of BtVS' "Once More, with Feeling"; 17 fully reworked songs.


DDX, With Feeling

**ACT ONE**

INT. — CUDDY'S OFFICE — MORNING.

CUDDY has just arrived at work. She's dressed business casual: skirt and jacket set. (Note that the former isn't cut too tight and the latter isn't cut too low.) She takes off her overcoat, hangs it up, moves to her desk and sits down. Hits the button to boot up the computer. As she waits, she sorts miscellaneous paperwork into piles: urgent, not-so-urgent, and I'll-take-it-out-of-the-drawer-later-this-month.

CUDDY

(mutters, re. computer)

Why is this thing always so slow?

A cheerful tone as the computer finishes booting up. We hear Cuddy hit a couple of keys, presumably logging in to the hospital mainframe.

CUDDY

Okay. First order of business: make sure that

House didn't spam the staff e-mail accounts again.

(remembered exasperation)

Didn't hear the end of that for weeks…

Sound of several clicks, then the 'ping' of a new e-mail hitting the inbox.

CUDDY

(reading subject line)

'Attention all staff'… What's this?

She looks wary—is this another Housian scheme?—but double-clicks to open the message. Skims it.

CUDDY (cont'd)

(under her breath)

Staff of PPTH will until further notice conduct

all business in—_what_?

She does a double-take, eyes going wide. Reads the message again.

CUDDY

('Why me?' tone)

Oh, _great_.

She throws up her hands, lets them fall. Addresses the ceiling, as though a voice from the heavens will extend mercy.

CUDDY (cont'd)

House's insanity wasn't enough?

What did I do to deserve this?

A YOUNG WOMAN appears in the room. (Yes, appears: we're talking supernatural here.) College age, maybe twenty, twenty-one. Hair in a ponytail, a little messy; t-shirt and jeans, slip-on shoes. Despite the unprofessional appearance, she holds herself with the quiet assurance of someone who's got the situation in hand and knows it.

YOUNG WOMAN

Nothing. It's not a punishment.

CUDDY

(narrows her eyes)

Who are you?

She's understandably suspicious: last time there was an uninvited guest in the hospital, one of her employees was shot. The young woman approaches the desk, extends a hand to shake. Cuddy doesn't; she withdraws it, unperturbed.

YOUNG WOMAN

(lightly)

Call me Dem: acronym for _deus ex machina._

Since your Powers That Be take the summer

off and I have _way_ too much time on my hands,

I decided a little song-and-dance is just what

this institution needs: whimsical and _excellent_

for character development.

Dem's smile widens; she pulls a file-folder, bulging with papers, out of thin air. Cuddy gapes, but Dem doesn't seem to find any of this unusual. She lays the folder on Cuddy's desk.

DEM (cont'd)

There you go. You don't actually have much

singing to do—just the one number to start things

off, a short interlude and a verse or two during

the climax—so you get to play the Greek chorus

for the duration. All your lines are in there.

CUDDY

(flabbergasted, sputters)

This—this is a hospital, not Broadway! And I

don't sing—

DEM

Doesn't matter: you do now. Participation is

kind of compulsory.

She snaps her fingers, and a light, mincing musical introduction begins to play. Then she vanishes as suddenly as she appeared.

Cuddy tries to fight the music, but as the opening bars wind to a close, she finds that 'compulsory' was actually an apt description: she begins to sing in spite of herself. Contrary to her earlier assertion, her singing voice is pretty good.

[SONG: TRYING TO KEEP ORDER to the tune of "Going Through the Motions."]

CUDDY

_Every single day, it never changes_

_Trying to make this place run._

She goes back to her work, as though nothing is out of the ordinary: checking the sorted files, shutting down the e-mail program.

_Sure I've reached the top, but what is strange is_

_It's never easy. And it's rarely fun._

Camera shifts to emphasize a very crowded desk, each paper representing a task to do, then back to Cuddy as she shakes her head in dismay: paperwork is only half the battle.

_What I must endure from the fourth floor,_

_I stand all that and more, but I'm just_

_Trying to keep order,_

_Wielding chair and whip,_

_Hoping Doctor House won't lose his grip!_

Over the following lines, we get a montage of House's antics (no sound): arguing with her in the office as he brandishes test results, insulting a patient, popping several Vicodin.

_Always arrogant, oh-so-sarcastic_

_Pops narcotics left and right._

Back to Cuddy, contemplative.

_How to change his ways? Do something drastic?_

_Wilson tried and failed. It's not worth the fight._

(beat)

_Or case oversight._

She sighs, shrugs, resigned: House will be House, and if Wilson can't change him, she won't have any luck.

_So I stand behind his brilliant mind,_

_Let him be unrefined_

_For despite his unorthodoxy—_

NURSE BRENDA

(counterpoint)

_Damn unorthodoxy!_

CUDDY

_And bedside learned in hell,_

_Make allowances and he'll excel!_

She makes a few last rearrangements of the contents of her desk, then pushes her chair back, stands, retrieves and puts on her lab coat.

_Will he be this way forever?_

_All these years and he has never_

_Tried that bitterness to sever—_

_Nothing I can do…_

_Just keep keeping order,_

_Fulfill inner drive,_

_And hope someday he'll see_

_Life'd go more easily_

_If he'd do more than just_

_Survive._

The music ends; Cuddy falls silent, a little shocked at herself.

CUDDY

(mutters)

Thank God that's over!

She picks up the file Dem left on her desk, opens it, reads the top sheet.

CUDDY (cont'd)

Oh, _dammit_. There's no way House will—

She breaks off, realizes House won't have a choice. A slow, wicked smile spreads over her face.

CUDDY (cont'd)

On second thought…_this_ I have to see.

All I need is a case—

Four copies of a case file appear from thin air and fall to land neatly—one, two, three, four—on the desk. She shakes her head at the insanity of it all, but picks them up.

CUDDY (cont'd)

Thanks.

Camera pans out to follow Cuddy out of her office. Cut to:

INT. — FOURTH FLOOR CORRIDOR — CONTINUING

as she gets off the elevator. We see the doors slide closed behind her. Camera switches to Cuddy's perspective, locks on HOUSE, who's limping down the corridor. Cuddy plots an intercept course, catches up with him and shoves the case folders into his free hand.

HOUSE

(frowns, affects confusion)

Now, see, these look like case folders, but

they can't be, because I don't recall agreeing

to take a case.

CUDDY

I don't care if you agree or not: you're taking

it. Now go do your job.

House opens one folder and starts to skim it, then looks up sharply as a musical note sounds.

HOUSE

What the hell was that?

Cuddy smiles the smile of the cat who's just gotten the cream and several canaries.

CUDDY

Did I mention we all have to sing and dance

our way through work today?

(beat, glances at his cane)

Well, not dance, in your case, but that was

probably the cue for your opening number.

HOUSE

(flatly)

I'm not singing.

Cuddy's smile widens: she can't wait.

CUDDY

That's what you think.

She points to his office.

CUDDY (cont'd)

Get in there.

House approaches the office door and glances in: from his perspective, we can see the FELLOWS at the conference table. CHASE is filling in a crossword puzzle, FOREMAN sips a coffee, and CAMERON is diligently completing House's paperwork. The scene is completely normal and non-threatening, and House doesn't buy it for a second.

HOUSE

I think I'll diagnose from

out here today.

CUDDY

Go in, and you don't have any clinic hours

until this madness is over.

House considers: he doesn't want to capitulate—or sing, for that matter—but he hates the clinic too much to refuse. Camera follows him as

INT. — DIAGNOSTICS CONFERENCE ROOM — CONTINUING

he enters the office and tosses the files down in the middle of the table. The earlier musical cue repeats; as the fellows reach for copies of the file, House begins to sing.

[SONG: I'VE GOT A THEORY/HALF-WITS/JUST RUN THE DAMN TESTS to the tune of "I've Got a Theory/Bunnies/If We're Together."]

HOUSE

_We've got a patient! The differential?_

_Well, come on, people—I'm not giving you all day here._

CAMERON

(opening the file)

_What are the symptoms? There must be symptoms,_

_And given your tastes I am guessing that they're severe._

HOUSE

(annoyed)

_That what the chart's for—start to work it out!_

_Keep your mouth shut 'til you know what_

_You're meant to talk about._

Chase has already read the file. He has an idea; sings rapidly and apparently in a single breath.

CHASE

_It could be drug use! Illicit drug use_

'_Cause that's a common cause_

_Of many of the symptoms here_

_And we should run a tox screen_

_Search the house and find out if_

_The patient lies._

House likes that one, both the idea and the delivery. He nods slightly, lets Chase have an approving smirk. Chase beams: his week is made.

Camera pans in on Foreman, who has his usual form of diagnosis to suggest.

FOREMAN

_Maybe head trauma? Get an MRI._

_Or what if—_

The music changes abruptly, the light, cheery notes of the piano becoming darker, faster, more intense chords played by electric guitar.

HOUSE

(explodes, disgusted)

'_Fore I hired you, did you even go to med schools?_

_You're clearly guessing and I don't pay you to be fools!_

_Chase at least learned my methods—_

We can see Chase grin, pleased: validated twice in one day.

HOUSE (cont'd)

_But the rest of you are so getting on my nerves!_

_Theories! Give me some better theories!_

The music resumes the original tune and mode, pauses for a beat. HOUSE adds:

HOUSE (cont'd)

_Or more stuff to mock._

Which, after all, is almost as good. Cameron's turn: the camera focuses on her.

CAMERON

_It could be lupus; run an ANA._

HOUSE

(rolls his eyes)

_It's never been lupus and it will not be so today!_

The tone of the piece changes for the final time, a guitar joining the piano as the music swells, losing the uncertain tone of the earlier theorizing and becoming as confident as House's instructions.

HOUSE

_Chase, break and enter. Foreman, start to test:_

_Tox screen, CBC and all the rest—_

_And that's an order, not a request._

(shoos them)

_Well, go on; move—your duty calls;_

_Don't stand and gape within these walls._

The fellows file out. Camera follows them to:

INT. — FOURTH FLOOR CORRIDOR — CONTINUING

FELLOWS

_Another case. Well, let's get in it;_

_Patient's growing worse every minute._

The camera follows them down the corridor.

FOREMAN

_We know by now: we cannot grouse—_

Chase smirks, picks up the line.

CHASE

_Or else we're sure to piss off House._

Cameron gives them a disapproving look, but can't completely hide her grin.

FELLOWS

_We'll run the tests—_

HOUSE (V.O.)

_Run the damn tests!_

FELLOWS (cont'd)

_And we'll solve this case—_

_That's how we are meant to earn our place._

HOUSE (V.O., cont'd)

_And get me answers!_

_FELLOWS (cont'd):_

_Nothing we can't guess…_

_Eventually._

The music ends. Chase splits off from the other two to do the weekly break-and-entry; Foreman heads for the lab with Cameron following. Cut back to

INT. — DIAGNOSTICS CONFERENCE ROOM — CONTINUING

House is sitting at the conference table, fingers steepled over the handle of his cane. His expression is of profound disgust.

HOUSE

(mutters)

This is why I'm an atheist: no benevolent being would

have allowed show tunes to highjack my life.

There's a pensive silence. Then an idea occurs to House and he smirks.

HOUSE (cont'd)

I wonder if Wilson's been forced to sing anything?

Maybe a funeral dirge with some tumor-ridden kids as backup…

Cut to:

INT. — ENTRANCE TO RADIOLOGY — DAY

Cuddy is there, standing outside the room while the fellows run an MRI. She consults Dem's file briefly, then closes it and looks at the camera.

CUDDY

While House is goofing off, his fellows are actually

doing their jobs and taking care of the patient,

who's having an MRI. Apparently Foreman is

testing for neurological problems anyway.

She peeks in the viewing window. We don't see what she sees, but we don't have to.

CUDDY (cont'd)

(dryly)

And Chase is back from the weekly break-in, which

is fortunate, because an uncommon number of patients

seem to need an intensivist at some point during

this procedure.

Cut to:

INT. — RADIOLOGY — CONTINUING

Camera pans in on the MRI machine. The PATIENT (a nondescript man in his forties, whom we will not see again this episode) has just come out; fanfare begins to play

[SONG: THE PATIENTto the tune of "The Mustard."]

CAMERON

(turns a cartwheel, sings)

_The patient's still okay!_

CHASE/FOREMAN

_The patient's still okay!_

The patient is alarmed: were they expecting him _not_ to be okay?

Cut to:

INT. — ENTRANCE TO RADIOLOGY — CONTINUING

Cuddy, who saw all this through the window, looks disturbed. She stands there for a moment, shakes it off.

CUDDY:

I'll talk to them about that display later. Right now,

we should get back up to Oncology—Wilson's due to

start an expository number any minute.

She consults her watch, then the folder from earlier. This time, we catch a glimpse of sheet music sticking out of it.

CUDDY

Damn—if this tune were any sweeter, it'd make Disney sick.

I hope they let him bring it down an octave.

She turns and heads for the elevator. On its closing doors, abrupt cut to:

INT. — WILSON'S OFFICE — DAY.

WILSON is sitting at his desk when mellow guitar chords begin to play. He had been doing paperwork, but when he hears them, he puts his pen down.

[SONG: CAUGHT IN HIS THRALLto the tune of "Under Your Spell."]

WILSON

(sings)

_He drives me crazy sometimes—_

_I'm first to admit it—yet_

_He's seen me through my glum times_

_Almost since when we first met._

He smiles reminiscently, shakes his head.

WILSON (cont'd)

_Maybe it's a fact_

_That opposites attract._

The music picks up for the chorus.

WILSON

_Caught up in his thrall_

_Standing at his side_

_Confidant and sometimes guide._

_Just why I can't recall_

_But I'll take in stride_

_Each surprise that he'll provide._

Over the next verse, we see a montage of scenes from their friendship: Christmas Eve with laughter and Chinese; House barging in on Wilson blow-drying his hair; House falling down as his cane gives out; the two of them playing poker at the oncology benefit.

WILSON

_We're so mismatched that it's strange_

_We've been together this long—_

_But there's not much that I'd change;_

_Somehow it keeps our bond strong._

_It's odd, yes, but true,_

_That we have seen so much through._

More scenes, these not quite so companionable: House in Wilson's office as Wilson packs up in preparation to leave during the Vogler debacle; Wilson telling House to go to hell after House insults Andie; House yelling at Wilson over sleeping with Grace and Wilson yelling back. But then the two of them, walking side-by-side together, shoulders brushing.

Fade back to Wilson's office.

WILSON

_Caught up in his thrall—_

_But on reflection,_

'_Twas mutual connection._

_Something, however small_

_Prompted him to stay;_

_Had to figure out the way_

_I worked—why I liked him._

A beat. Wilson pauses briefly with a pensive look of his own.

WILSON

_Our friendship endures—_

_Maybe even something more?_

No fantasy scenes here: it's too remote a possibility, in Wilson's mind, even to imagine.

WILSON (cont'd)

_Caught up in his thrall—_

_Don't quite know it all_

_For he's such a mystery_

_Enough to make me fall_

_Holding to the key,_

_Glimpses that he's let me see…_

_There's something more there…_

_There's something more there…_

_There's something more there…_

_There's something more there…_

Cut to:

INT. — FOURTH FLOOR CORRIDOR — CONTINUING.

Cuddy is standing about halfway between the oncology and diagnostics offices.

CUDDY

Even with the elevator, it takes far too much time to

get from the basement to the fourth floor—I only just

made the first refrain.

(pause)

Wilson has a great voice, even if that number

was a little more than I wanted to know.

(under her breath)

At least it explains why he puts up with so

much crap from House. Figures: if not

insanity, it'd have to be love.

Cuddy moves down the hall, glances into Diagnostics. House is in the conference room juggling an 8-ball, his oversized ball, and the stapler. She raps on the glass; he starts, but still catches the objects.

HOUSE

(shouts)

_What?_

CUDDY

(sighs, opens the door and sticks her head in)

Wilson's office. Now. You're late for a duet.

House glares obstinately at her, drops into his chair and crosses his arms over his chest, the picture of 'I shall not be moved.' Cuddy opens the folder and consults the contents.

CUDDY (cont'd)

Actually—you can stay there.

She withdraws, lets the door swing shut and heads for oncology, stopping in front of and knocking on the door. Wilson opens it, looks surprised to see her.

WILSON

Dr. Cuddy? Do you need something?

CUDDY

You have a duet in House's office. It was originally supposed

to be in yours, but he's determined to go through this with

as much ill grace as possible.

WILSON

(chuckles)

Sounds like him. Actually, DDX in song was fairly

entertaining…and I had no idea Chase could

theorize that _fast_.

Meaning the walls between his office and House's are thin: this will be Important later. Wilson leaves his office, closes the door behind him.

WILSON

Anything I should know about this number? The last one

was kind of a surprise…

Cuddy checks the folder as they head for House's office.

CUDDY

There's a dance interlude in the middle, kind of a

forties-style thing. House is exempt, for obvious

reasons, but you're stuck with it.

WILSON

(dryly)

I think I'll survive.

Cut to:

INT. — DIAGNOSTICS CONFERENCE ROOM — CONTINUING

The camera follows Wilson as he enters just in time for a winds-and-piano introduction, then establishes House, seated at the conference table. We hear the door swing shut, then Wilson drawing a breath in preparation to sing.

[SONG: I'LL NEVER TELL to the eponymous tune.]

WILSON

(moves into frame, gestures to indicate House, sings)

_This is the guy that I do not ask why_

_I still hang around,_

_Even when he grins with glee as he runs me_

_Into the ground._

House looks up at him and smiles at the apt description.

WILSON (cont'd)

_All these years, they just show_

_His vitriol won't make me go._

_There are just things that—no._

_I'll never tell._

The music may be compelling him, but just this once, House doesn't mind: this is the one person it's okay to sing in front of. He mirrors Wilson's gesture and commences.

HOUSE

_He is my friend to the end, will attend_

_To my every need. He'll pay my bail when in jail_

_Will not fail my hungers to feed._

_He's loyal, he's a wit;_

_We're both screwed up but still we fit._

Hearing this rare open statement of trust and friendship, Wilson smiles, too.

HOUSE (cont'd)

_It's just that he's a bit—_

(smirks)

_Well. I'll never tell._

They meet each other's gazes. Wilson answers House's smirk with one of his own.

BOTH (cont'd)

_But the things I could tell!_

The music changes key, speeds up in preparation for the banter. House and Wilson sing about each other—but, unless noted, to the camera.

WILSON

_He drinks._

HOUSE

_He preaches._

WILSON

_All boundaries he breaches._

HOUSE

_He has this thing with marriage that I won't describe._

That one stung.

WILSON

(frowns, counters)

_Addict, narcotic._

House looks over at Wilson with narrowed eyes, then back at the camera as he parries the remark.

HOUSE

_He's ever so neurotic!_

WILSON

_He'll lie, cheat or steal or try an incisive jibe._

House takes that as a compliment.

BOTH (cont'd)

_Ascribe whatever meaning…_

WILSON

_Maybe needs some intervening._

HOUSE

(with a 'just try it' look)

_Or out of control careening._

WILSON

_Maybe on support he's leaning,_

_But I guess just as well._

BOTH(cont'd)

'_Cause God knows I'll never tell!_

WILSON

_He needs a muzzle_

_And depends on a puzzle_

_To get him through the day he couldn't otherwise bear._

It may not be the whole of the truth, but it still hits close to home. House glares at Wilson again, then returns his focus to the camera and fires back.

HOUSE

_He needs the needy—_

_It's really almost greedy._

_When I least want a lecture that's when I'll find him there!_

WILSON

(spoken)

Time for that dance interlude, I guess.

HOUSE

(spoken)

What dance interlude?

In answer, there's an instrumental break and change of key. Wilson begins a few dance steps; House observes, still seated.

HOUSE

(incredulous, over the instrumentals)

Swing dancing? This is bad enough without

bringing back the forties.

Wilson continues to dance, plainly enjoying it despite House's mockery. And if worse comes to worse, there's always the possibility of blackmail later.

WILSON

(sings)

_Well, maybe we're both crazy._

HOUSE

(sings)

_The logic's hazy…_

WILSON

_But his antics are amusing,_

_Even when they're quite confusing_

_So if I'm the crutch that he's using…_

Another instrumental break. House has had enough of Wilson's dancing and stops it with a strategic application of cane to shins. Return to original melody as Wilson doubles over.

WILSON

(through clenched teeth, massaging his shin)

_We need each other._

HOUSE

_Like symbiotes or brothers._

He gives Wilson what could be read as a mildly apologetic look.

HOUSE (cont'd)

_Never mind the others—he's the one that will stay._

WILSON

(mollified, straightens up)

_I endure vices, and make some sacrifices,_

_But in the end the price is one that I'm glad to pay._

HOUSE

_I say that I need no one;_

_That way, I know I won't be betrayed._

If Wilson is glad to have confirmation of the fact, he knows better than to show it.

WILSON

_But I wouldn't let him drive me off._

HOUSE

_Despite all the times I yelled and scoffed._

WILSON

_Maybe this arrangement's stressful_

_But ultimately successful._

HOUSE

_And I can't imagine working_

_Sans my bud beside me smirking,_

_Maybe pranking,_

_Maybe joking._

WILSON

(dryly)

_Maybe driven into stroking._

_Either way, all the provoking_

_It will somehow end well,_

_And that's why I'll never tell._

_I swear that I'll never tell._

HOUSE

(smirking)

_Although I could._

WILSON

(pointedly rubbing his shin)

_Although I should._

HOUSE

_I take the fifth._

_Just move along._

BOTH

_I'll never tell!_

The song ends. Wilson turns to House.

WILSON

That was...uncommonly positive of you.

HOUSE

(not going there)

It was the song talking—I haven't had to be that

candid about my emotions since I ditched Stacy.

Did I mention this vaudeville routine is getting old?

He turns, heads for the door. Wilson follows. Cut to:

INT. — FOURTH FLOOR CORRIDOR — CONTINUING

as they move down the hall toward House's office.

WILSON

Not to me, but I'm sure you've been complaining

all morning.

HOUSE

('duh' look)

Of course I've been complaining—

if I wanted to sing, I wouldn't've become a doctor!

WILSON

It's not that bad—my younger patients were

really entertained when I sang while they were

getting morning meds.

HOUSE

(interestedly)

Something upbeat and heartwarming, or did they

all end up crying over their terminal prognoses?

WILSON

(frowns)

They're not _all_ terminal. And it was nice, full of

hope. Some of them made great backup singers.

HOUSE

(pained)

Thank God I was nowhere near _that_. I've

had about as much sweetness as I can stomach.

Cut to CUDDY, waiting by the fourth floor elevator.

CUDDY

He should be happy, then: the number he has coming

up is about as far from sweet as possible.

The elevator doors slide open.

INT. — ELEVATOR — CONTINUING

Cuddy gets in and hits the button for the first floor.

CUDDY (cont'd)

Not that he likes to discuss his suffering, either, but

he'll get to do it more or less in private.

(opens the folder, sighs)

Time for my second song—at least this one's short.

She leaves the elevator.

INT. — LOBBY — CONTINUING

The camera follows her as she returns to her office.

INT. — CUDDY'S OFFICE — CONTINUING

She sits down behind her desk just in time for the sound of chimes to open up the piece.

[SONG: THE META NUMBERto the tune of "The Parking Ticket."]

Cuddy flips through the folder as she sings, skimming through what's already occurred and then peeking ahead.

CUDDY

(sings)

_So far it's been a strange, strange day;_

_I hope the theater routine won't stay…_

_Up in Diagnostics_

_The final bars of a duet…_

She shakes her head slightly at House and Wilson's antics: one part exasperation, one part grudging fondness.

CUDDY (cont'd)

_There's something odd going on there—_

_It's not the dancing; _au contraire_;_

_Something else, something more_

_Some twisted ending is in store…_

_Something the music should reflect_

_(Or else the Chorus will detect)._

The music ends. Cuddy heaves a sigh, puts down the folder and leans back in her chair.

CUDDY

That's enough foreshadowing for a while, so let's

fast-forward a few hours and get back to House.

According to my file, he should be home by now—

(under her breath)

thank God I don't have to follow him there—

(normal volume)

with some scotch he has no business mixing with

narcotics, particularly bad leg pain and an even

worse mood than usual.

Cut to:

INT. — HOUSE'S APARTMENT — NIGHT

Camera enters at the front door, passes the coffee table so we can see the omnipresent bottle of Vicodin and a half-empty glass of scotch confirming Cuddy's narration. Moving on, we establish House at the piano, absently picking out a few notes. He's wearing a pained expression, which morphs into a scowl as he hears a phantom electric guitar begin to play.

HOUSE

(yells at ceiling)

Would you shut that thing the hell up? I'm in

pain and nowhere _near_ drunk enough to want to sing!

The guitar pauses for several seconds. House starts to smirk, sure he's beaten the music, then scowls with renewed intensity when the chord repeats, louder and more insistently. House looks back up at the ceiling.

HOUSE

Fine!

(positions hands over keyboard)

But if you _insist_, let's fill out the melody a little. Intro,

if you'd be so obnoxious?

Third repetition. This time, House starts to play, too, accompanying the guitar. The song has a distinct rock-'n-roll feel; House sings in a sullen undertone.

[SONG: DIDN'T CHOOSEto the tune of "Rest in Peace."]

HOUSE

_Since the infarction years ago_

_The evening hours crawl; seem almost to slow._

_Nerve endings frayed, broadcasting pain_

_With fire's burning glow…_

_Half drink, and half narcotic haze_

_Substitute for the puzzles_

_That get me through my days._

_Shouldn't manage it like this_

_But there aren't other ways…_

Drums join the guitar and House's piano. House continues to sing with rising bitterness: he'd never in a million years talk about this, and now he has to sing it? Life, yet again, Is Not Fair.

Over the next verse, the drums intensify.

HOUSE (cont'd)

_It's hell; a most perverted dance_

_The pain my sneering paramour,_

_Pills a toxic chance._

_Better to have died than live_

_In grips of this _romance_…_

_Anything for relief._

The melody becomes full-fledged rock-n'-roll; House nearly snarls the chorus.

HOUSE

_Didn't choose this way_

_Didn't choose this pain—_

_Refused amputation; debridement_

_Gave me addiction's chains._

_Trusted her and was betrayed_

_What was inflicted can't allay…_

_A price too high to pay._

Back to the original, more subdued tune. House's singing is a little quieter, too, but increases in volume and tempo as he goes.

HOUSE

_They think that they can understand;_

_They say that it's all in my head_

_Frown at the pills in hand—_

(emphatic)

_It's not their call to break my fall,_

_To chide and countermand,_

_Deny me this relief._

Transition to the bridge. Slow, sullen, picking up as we move closer to the chorus' rock-n'-roll bang.

HOUSE (cont'd)

_The days, I can bear._

_When a case is found that can hold my mind_

_Puzzle pieces form a chain to bind_

_Back the pain and work with the pills entwined_

_And so what if this method's oft maligned?_

_At least it works—or so I find._

_I just wish they—_

_Knew I didn't choose this way_

_Didn't choose this pain—_

_Refused amputation; debridement_

_Gave me addiction's chains._

_Trusted her and was betrayed_

_What was inflicted can't allay…_

_A price too high to pay._

_A price that's far too high to pay._

The music ends with a savage flourish from House on the piano. He gets up, limps over to the coffee table, takes an extra Vicodin with the remainder of the scotch, then moves into his bedroom and slams the door behind him.

Cut to:

INT. — CUDDY'S BEDROOM — CONTINUING

Cuddy is sitting up in bed, a book splayed open on her lap, apparently put down recently. The folder sits on her bedside table.

CUDDY

(yawns)

I was starting to think I'd be up half the night

waiting for House to do that number. Anyway,

back at the hospital, his fellows are still running

tests on the patient...

She trails off, yawns again and switches off the light.

Cut to:

INT. — HOSPITAL LAB — CONTINUING

All three fellows are there, carrying out their respective tasks accompanied by a slow, melancholy tune. After a while, they sing in unison.

[SONG: THE FELLOWS' LAMENTto the tune of "Dawn's Lament."]

FELLOWS

_We have been here all night working._

_Does anybody even care?_

The music ends. Cut to:

INT. — CUDDY'S BEDROOM — CONTINUING

a sleeping Cuddy, and the tacit answer: "No."

Cut to:

EXT. — HOUSE'S APARTMENT — NIGHT

Then pan in to:

INT. — HOUSE'S BEDROOM — CONTINUING

The bedroom is dark, but we can see House sprawled out on the bed, limbs splayed; a close-up of his face shows he is in REM sleep. The close-up grows closer, and closer, and finally fades into the familiar blurry wavering of a dream sequence. Establish:

INT. — HOUSE'S LIVING ROOM — CONTINUING

House is sitting on the couch. STACY leans against the piano, wearing a tight red satin dress and red lipstick. The dress' bodice is somewhat low-cut, and the skirt short enough to show a scar to match House's marring her right thigh.

House notices her, looks up sharply.

HOUSE

Stacy? How'd you get in here—and _what_

happened to your leg?

He gets up, limps over to inspect the damage.

HOUSE (cont'd)

You can't have had—

STACY

(breaking in)

I didn't—and I'm not Stacy, technically.

She sits down at the piano, gives him a sexy half-smile. Her whole demeanor is 'come hither,' as much a sex symbol as the dress.

STACY (cont'd)

Come on, Greg—basic metaphor doesn't even

approach your caliber of puzzle. Wake up and

smell the psychology.

We see the familiar sudden stillness of epiphany on House's face.

HOUSE

You're my pain. And since my pain doesn't

usually come in such a shapely, well-dressed

package, this is a dream, and I want to wake up.

_Now._

He's right: she is his PAIN, and she laughs at his look of horror as a jazzy piano opening begins to play. Her singing is low and sultry and pours seduction on like syrup.

[SONG: WHAT YOU FEELto the eponymous tune.]

PAIN

_Since I'm here to stay—_

_Come and say 'hello.'_

She smiles at him, starts slinking into his personal space. He tenses a little, but stands his ground.

PAIN (cont'd)

_You can't send me away,_

_And midnight hours pass real slow._

_I'm the fire, stealing your motion_

On the last line, she walks her fingers (nails painted red) up his right thigh, one step per syllable. He grimaces at a flare of pain, backs away from her; she moves her hand away but closes the distance between them without missing a beat.

PAIN (cont'd)

_My ebbs and flows, eternal as the ocean…_

_Oh, you know me well—'cause I'm your private hell._

Close-up of House's expression: mixed rage, resignation and hatred. Then pan back out so both he and Pain are visible to the camera.

PAIN

_I'm what's deep within,_

_The secrets you keep_

(wicked, sexy grin)

_And the many sins_

_That torment you when you sleep._

Her knowing look gives us to understand she's intimately familiar with them all, and it's clear that she's not merely his physical pain. Over the following lines, she leans closer and closer to him, apparently about to kiss him—but all she does is sing the last line, low and breathy, into his ear.

PAIN (cont'd)

_All your doubts and darknesses hidden,_

_Things that others to see are just forbidden…_

_So what do you say? Why don't we roll them out?_

House moves away from her again. This time, she lets him.

PAIN (cont'd)

(condescending)

'_Cause I am what you feel, boy…_

_I know just what you feel, boy…_

That's the last straw: being addressed as 'boy' touched a nerve. He's heard that one before.

HOUSE

(shouted)

The hell you do! Shut up and get out!

Pain grins at him, shakes her head: she's having fun, and the game's not over yet.

PAIN

(sings)

_All that repression—keep it up too long_

_Sooner or later, pressure's gonna grow too strong._

Camera pans to show the bottle of scotch—now full and corked—on the coffee table. As Pain sings, it follows the words in the verse: cork shoots out, scotch sprays everywhere.

PAIN (cont'd)

_The cork will blow out of the bottle_

_Everything inside will flow full-throttle…_

Camera refocuses on Pain and her wicked, wicked smile.

PAIN (cont'd)

_That's how it'll be…_

_Unless you deal with me._

(beat)

_Pain of your form must be the norm,_

_But not pain of your mind._

_Keep thinking pills will cure all of your ills_

_You won't like what you find…_

It's not a threat, it's a fact. Her advice—such as it is—is nothing he doesn't already know.

PAIN (cont'd)

_I am here and I'm real, boy…_

HOUSE

(in counterpoint)

_Shut your trap, cut this crap_

'_Cause I don't wanna hear it._

PAIN

_l am what you feel, boy…_

HOUSE

(in counterpoint)

_I know pain, and again_

_I'm refusing to fear it._

But she's got his number and he knows it. She gives him a look that says, "Refuse all you like: it doesn't matter." Holds his gaze. The playful note goes out of her voice.

_PAIN_

_Heed my warning: I'll be your ruin_

_Unless you'll listen and stop me brewin'._

HOUSE

_While you're there: I don't care_

_For the price that I'm paying._

His singing drips bitterness: _that_ is what no one seems to understand. Pain closes in again, back into his personal space.

PAIN

_Remember that when you're awaking_

_Or your leg isn't all I will be taking._

Is it a warning? A threat? A promise? Does it even matter which?

HOUSE

(half-resigned, half-contrary)

_And yet why should I try_

_To deny that you're staying?_

Pain laughs. All at once the solemn warning vibe is gone and the seductress is back.

PAIN

_Oh, you know me well—I'll stay your private hell._

She kisses him roughly as the music ends (he doesn't respond), and we cut abruptly to:

INT — HOUSE'S BEDROOM — CONTINUING

House in his bed, now awake, wide-eyed and breathing hard. He composes himself, regulates his breathing.

HOUSE

(mutters)

Much more of this, and I'm going to start a smear

campaign to take down Broadway.

He gets out of bed and returns to the living room, then picks up the bottle of Vicodin and shakes it, listening with a practiced ear.

HOUSE (cont'd)

Hmm, running low.

He dry-swallows a pill.

HOUSE (cont'd)

I'll get a scrip from Wilson in the morning.

Putting the bottle down, he returns to the bedroom.

BLACK OUT.

END OF ACT ONE.

**ACT TWO**

INT. — WILSON'S OFFICE — DAY

Pan in, establish Wilson at his desk with a cup of coffee and a stack of paperwork. He's just about to start on it when House bursts in through the balcony door—without knocking, naturally.

WILSON

And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company

(consults his watch)

a full two hours before you usually come in?

House holds up the Vicodin bottle, shakes it to emphasize it is empty.

HOUSE

(brightly)

Out of my happy pills. Need a scrip.

House approaches Wilson's desk, swiping some assorted mementos to the floor and sitting down on the edge of it.

WILSON

(dryly)

Darn. And here I was hoping we were

going to have another cheerful duet.

HOUSE

(pained)

That's still going on?

WILSON

Afraid so. If you'd been half an hour earlier,

you'd have caught your minions arguing in

three-part harmony.

HOUSE

(smirks, but won't be diverted)

And as many possibilities for humiliation as

that undoubtedly had, you're missing the

point: I'm still in pain here. More, actually,

since I found out we're still on this hellish

journey through Musicville.

He picks up Wilson's prescription pad, shoves it at him.

HOUSE (cont'd)

Write.

Wilson's expression says this is the last thing he wants to do, but he sighs and picks up a pen.

WILSON

One of these days, you're going to destroy your

liver with all the acetaminophen you keep

inflicting on it—and you just said yourself that

your pain was aggravated by the sing—

HOUSE

(pointedly)

What was that I sang about you yesterday?

'When I _least_ want a lecture—'

WILSON

All right, all right…

He begins to write as mellow guitar chords sound in the room, singing softly as he does so. Curiously, House doesn't seem to hear.

[SONG: QUESTIONS to the tune of "Standing."]

WILSON

_How often have you made this demand?_

_How often have I played the willing hand?_

_And how many times have I longed to understand?_

_Oh, House…_

The guitar chords deepen and a drum joins the melody, keeping the beat.

WILSON

_Would it kill you to in me once confide_

_What's there beyond the walls 'hind which you hide?_

_I have stood stalwart, always at your side,_

_And yet…_

He looks up from the prescription pad, meets House's gaze and holds it as he sings. House doesn't notice, keeps looking past him. Over this verse, a montage of scenes: House popping Vicodin; House grimacing as he rubs his thigh; House looking like absolute hell during detox; Wilson splinting fingers he knows were purposely broken; House and Wilson arguing at the end of that debacle.

WILSON (cont'd)

_I still find it agonizing, to see your steel-strong will,_

_Which bows to no man living, kowtowing for a pill:_

_A sacrifice_

_That reaps such terrible ill—_

_There is no higher price._

Fade back to Wilson's office.

WILSON (cont'd)

_If I could only see where lines divide:_

_Neuropathic, versus emotion's side._

_You say that you're unchanged; I know that you have lied_

_(Or tried)._

Wilson looks back down at the prescription pad, conflicted.

WILSON (cont'd)

_And now I am sitting, writing—and does it hurt or heal?_

He signs the scrip, continues to sing.

_It's not my call to make: I can't know what you feel—_

_Wish I could make_

_A wish and make it real:_

_Just a wish that you would heal…_

_How I wish that you could heal._

The music ends, and with it, House's trancelike state. He takes the scrip from Wilson, then glances at the clock.

HOUSE

(suspiciously)

What just happened?

WILSON

I wrote—

HOUSE

You pick up the pen, I'm unaware of two

minutes passing; next thing I know, you're

handing me a scrip. What happened in the

two minutes?

Wilson sighs, puts the pen down, leans back in his chair: he should have known better than to hope House wouldn't notice.

WILSON

I sang. About my concern for you, and how I

hate knowing you're dependent on those damned

pills.

(pause)

Every time I write a scrip—I may be stopping

your pain, but I'm also helping you do damage.

House narrows his eyes, gestures sharply at his right thigh.

HOUSE

(deliberately)

The _damage_ is my leg, not the pills. I spent most

of the night dwelling on it—in song, by the way,

just to add to the suffering—and I am _not_ discussing—

But apparently he _is_ discussing, because on cue, he's interrupted by a piano-and-strings combination that makes Wilson wince. House attempts to escape the inevitable duet, but only succeeds in moving around to the front of the desk before he finds himself frozen in place.

[SONG: ANSWERS/CAUGHT IN HIS THRALL (REPRISE) to the tune of "Under Your Spell/Standing (Reprise)."]

WILSON

_Caught up in your thrall…_

_House, why won't you see_

_I can't sign your death decree?_

He holds House's gaze, willing him to understand.

WILSON (cont'd)

_I will not watch you fall…_

_Know you don't agree,_

_But you mean too much to me_

_And I cannot just—_

Wilson's 'just' and House's are simultaneous.

HOUSE

_Just shut up; you don't understand;_

_It's 'cause I trust you that I can demand_

_Your helping hand—_

WILSON (simultaneous with House, below)

_So please confide the knowledge_

_I need to understand:_

_What lines divide_

_Your damn pain?_

_Do pills keep it all banned?_

HOUSE

_I cannot trust_

_You to leave this alone_

_I'm not having it discussed_

_You will adjust; I am not fussed_

_So do what you must—_

BOTH

_Just understand…_

_Just understand…_

_Just understand…_

_Just under—_

_Stand…_

The music ends, and awkward silence stretches for several seconds; neither House nor Wilson moves. Then House turns and limps out, shutting Wilson's door behind him with a bang.

WILSON

(mutters)

Well, _that_ went well.

He considers his coffee cup, starts to reach for it, then stops, deciding coffee is the last thing he needs. He pauses for a beat, then:

WILSON

This insanity will end, and we'll agree that whole

exchange never happened…

(bitterly)

Even if the issues behind it stay unresolved until

he kills himself.

This fails to make him feel better. He sighs.

WILSON (cont'd)

Best damn diagnostician in the country—the

world, maybe—and his own health just _has_ to

be the blind spot.

Wilson glares balefully the abandoned prescription pad, then shoves it into a drawer, which he slams shut.

Cut to:

INT. — DIAGNOSTICS CONFERENCE ROOM — DAY

House is standing in front of the whiteboard, his foul mood all but palpable; the fellows—visibly tired and nursing cups of coffee—are seated at the table.

HOUSE

Did you work out what was wrong with the

patient, or do I have to go look at

(checks the file)

him?

CAMERON

(yawns)

Atypical presentation of a bacterial

infection. He's on broad-spectrum

antibiotics and should be fine.

She pauses, gives House an appraising look.

CAMERON (cont'd)

Are you—?

HOUSE

(dead serious)

One caring word out of you and you're fired.

Cameron closes her mouth. Chase and Foreman exchange a glance, silently agreeing the best course of action at present is to keep their heads down.

Cut to:

INT. — WILSON'S OFFICE — CONTINUING

Wilson is still at his desk, about a third of the way through the day's paperwork when the opening bars of a somber piano melody begin to play.

[SONG: NEARING THE FINISH to the tune of "Walk Through the Fire."]

WILSON

_So the final movement begins:_

_Melancholy piano plays._

_I just don't know_

_The outcome of the show._

_Can Greg House change his ways?_

Wilson is pensive, clearly deliberating something.

WILSON (cont'd)

_Another day, another song,_

_Another step made in the dance._

_But do I dare_

_To tell him how I care?_

_How can I take the chance?_

He pushes his chair back and rises, moving toward the door as he continues to sing.

WILSON (cont'd)

_Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained;_

_And every rule can bend._

_Some things just must be explained_

_Before the—_

The music changes to a lower register. Abrupt cut to:

INT. — EMPTY CLINIC EXAM ROOM — CONTINUING

where we establish House, sitting on a stool brooding. His fingers are steepled over his cane, his expression pensive.

HOUSE

_I've known his secret all along—_

_He's easy as a book to read._

_But if I felt…_

_After the wounds she dealt_

_Which way would I proceed?_

_Is it a risk too great to take?_

_For every chance, a price incurred._

_Better not make, fatal mistake_

_Wait for the—_

Abrupt cut to:

INT. — CUDDY'S OFFICE — CONTINUING

Cuddy is seated behind her desk with the file open in front of her (we don't see its contents clearly). She looks grateful: this is the very last number she has to sing in.

CUDDY

_As we come down to the wire_

_Will this duo face the fire?_

_Is it a gamble either can take?_

_House is known for insane chances_

_But well, the case of romance is_

_Personal: there's so much more at stake._

_A question posed,_

_The answer soon to be disclosed_

_As we draw nearer the finish._

Abrupt cut to:

INT. — EMPTY CLINIC EXAM ROOM — CONTINUING

where we rejoin House, who hasn't moved. (Note that when Wilson starts to sing in counterpoint, the screen splits to show him standing by his office door, apparently gathering his resolve.)

HOUSE

_The music's gone on long enough;_

_The time draws near to make a choice:_

_Avoid more pain_

_But forfeit chance of gain?_

_Or give the silence voice?_

WILSON (simultaneous with House's second and fourth lines)

_But do I dare_

_To tell him how I care?_

Abrupt cut to:

INT. — DIAGNOSTICS CONFERENCE ROOM — CONTINUING

the fellows, seated around the table. They've finished their coffee by now and are—for the moment—slightly more energetic. And with the case over with, they have time to devote to the question of what the hell has been going on for the past two days.

CHASE

_Madness is intensifying_

CAMERON

_Says he's okay but he's lying._

CHASE (cont'd)

_Since the music first began to play._

_Call it magic or delusion;_

_Either way, all the confusion_

_Has to be resolved sometime today._

FOREMAN (counterpoint, simultaneous with Chase and Cameron)

_House's dark mood affects us all_

_He looks like he's ready to kill._

_He'll work it out,_

'_Cause that's what he's about,_

_But first might take a fall._

CAMERON (descant)

_Can't stand any concern_

_Not any concern._

Abrupt cut to:

INT. — EMPTY CLINIC EXAM ROOM — CONTINUING

where House, to no one's surprise, is still brooding. (When Wilson takes up the counterpoint melody, the screen splits to show him still in his office.)

HOUSE

_Just play the part:_

_Why admit that I have a heart?_

WILSON

_All rules can be bent…_

Final abrupt cut to:

INT. — CUDDY'S OFFICE — CONTINUING

to establish Cuddy still at her desk.

CUDDY

_Now we are nearing the finish:_

_Let's see what rules can bend,_

_What barriers can diminish_

_Before the end…_

'_Fore the end…_

'_Fore the end—_

'_Fore the end!_

The music ends, and she closes the file with a satisfied sigh and leans back in her chair.

CUDDY

(spoken)

Just a little more dialogue, send Wilson

out to deal with House, and we can drop

the curtain on this whole insane show.

Cut to:

INT. — EMPTY CLINIC EXAM ROOM — CONTINUING

House has apparently finished brooding, and also found time—presumably when en route to his current location—to fill the prescription he got from Wilson earlier, because he pulls out a new bottle of Vicodin from his pocket and dry-swallows a pill.

HOUSE

(smug grin)

Patient saved, clinic a moot point, _and_ that

last song wasn't a duet.

In other words: it's all as good as can be expected. He gets up, turns toward the door.

HOUSE (cont'd)

And since I'm getting out of here while I can, the

next one won't be, either.

The camera follows him out to:

INT. — CLINIC WAITING ROOM — CONTINUING

where he pockets a cherry lollipop from the container on the reception desk on his way out.

FADE TO BLACK.

END ACT TWO.

**ACT THREE**

Establish:

INT. — WILSON'S OFFICE — CONTINUING

where Wilson is standing by the door with an expression that's half-determined, half-nervous. After a minute or two, he leaves the room. The camera follows him to

INT. — FOURTH FLOOR CORRIDOR — CONTINUING

as he walks toward Diagnostics, peering through the glass. House is not there, but the fellows are still where we left them during the last number, so he opens the door and pokes his head in.

WILSON

Have you seen House?

CHASE

Not since before the last song. Just as well

he left before it started—he was pissed off

as it was.

WILSON

(ruefully)

Concern…has that effect on him.

He withdraws, proceeds down the corridor toward the elevator. Cut to:

INT. — CUDDY'S OFFICE — CONTINUING

to establish Wilson standing in front of Cuddy's desk.

WILSON

Do you know where House is?

Cuddy consults the file with evident relief; skims several pages before looking up at Wilson.

CUDDY

He should be at home—that's where the last big

number is supposed to hit, anyway. You'd better

get over there if you want to be in time for the

last verse.

WILSON

You're telling me to leave work in the

middle of the day? My department—

CUDDY

Has competent staff and can manage for

a couple of hours without you. Go talk to

House so the music will stop.

There's a short pause; then WILSON nods and leaves the office.

CUDDY

(mutters)

I don't know what's stranger: what's about

to happen or that he seems to think Oncology

grinds to a halt all that time he spends managing

House.

Speak of the devil, we cut to:

INT. — HOUSE'S LIVING ROOM — CONTINUING

House is sitting on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table. Perhaps given pause by the previous night's dream sequence, he has elected to forego the scotch. He sighs when a light piano introduction begins to play, but by this point, the fury has mostly given way to lower-key exasperation.

HOUSE

(to ceiling)

The point here is to destroy my ability

to enjoy music, isn't it?

[SONG: SAY IT IN SONG to the tune of "Something to Sing About."]

HOUSE

_Last two days, we've all lived to the tune_

_And songs been forced to croon_

_Our dignity impugn._

Drums and a guitar join the piano melody. It's sweet—enough so to be facetious.

HOUSE (cont'd)

_I have sung—although against my will—_

_As I am doing still,_

_And it's making me ill._

Tempo steps up; through the next verse, House punctuates the ending of each line with a tap of the cane to his floor; on the last line, one tap per syllable.

HOUSE (cont'd)

_Hardly overjoyed_

_Privacy destroyed._

_More than just annoyed_

_I could not avoid_

_What was deployed—_

Tempo decreases.

HOUSE (cont'd)

_The endless song and dance_

_Doesn't accomplish much, at a glance…_

_What is the point?_

_Is there a point_

_To anything we've sung about?_

Unseen BACKUP SINGERS, presumably on the same plane as the piano, begin to vocalize: _'Ah-ah-ah.'_

HOUSE (cont'd)

_Oh, why were our lives sung about?_

Backup singing continues into a sort instrumental break. When the melody resumes, House is visibly resentful: is a little quiet in the privacy of his home too much to ask?

HOUSE

(rising bitterness)

_I'm in pain—_

_Must you repeat the fact?_

_Or Wilson's old speech act—_

_Why suffering protract?_

_What is there we couldn't just ignore?_

_Why these show tunes endure?_

_What are we singing for?_

Up tempo once again.

HOUSE (cont'd)

_What's the end in mind?_

_Why these roles assigned?_

_What has been aligned?_

_Why must we fly blind_

_By songs confined?_

_What will the ending show?_

_As usual, I need to know—_

_What's going on?_

_Let answers dawn!_

The music slows, switches into dissonant minor key. House winces, but continues to sing. Purely, of course, because he has no choice.

HOUSE (cont'd)

_All of the pain,_

_Fury and doubt—_

_What is it about?_

_Just tell me!_

_Familiar refrain:_

_Oh, tell me why_

_And not with a lie…_

_I remain_

_Curious and again_

_Anxious to know what this is about!_

_Or just to stop it!_

The music crescendos, increasing for a final time in tempo as well as volume. House, of course excused from dancing, waits it out with visible impatience.

The camera pans toward House's door, which opens as the music slows and mellows (retaining, unfortunately, the minor key), admitting Wilson. He shuts and locks it again, then moves to stand near the couch, in House's line of sight.

WILSON

(sings)

_I think I feel—_

_Well, I just thought—_

_Sorry we fought…_

'_Cause I care._

_These words are real._

_They're not just a song,_

_But honest and strong: I mean them._

_And maybe that's what matters…_

_Yes, maybe that's what matters…_

The music ends: this, apparently, was the answer House demanded. There's a long pause, during which Wilson awaits some reaction from House. When none appears to be forthcoming, he looks at him askance.

WILSON

Aren't you going to say something?

HOUSE

What? That I had no idea you have feelings

for me?

He gives Wilson a 'use-your-mind' look.

HOUSE (cont'd)

I'm an ass, not an idiot. And sit down already.

Wilson does, and a jazzy piano tune begins to play. House, his body angled toward Wilson, begins to sing matter-of-factly: now that he has something more interesting to focus on, the music has lost some of its power to irritate.

[SONG: WHAT YOU FEEL (REPRISE) to the eponymous tune.]

HOUSE

_Wasn't hard to guess: the symptoms were all there._

_Three exes, no less—how could I not be aware?_

_The big secret you've been concealing?_

_I've known all along just how you're feeling._

_Endure all the stress…well, of course you care!_

The music ends.

HOUSE

Right. Before I was _interrupted_ by that

(to ceiling, raised voice)

needless musical exposition

(to Wilson, enumerating points on his fingers)

three failed marriages, the Suzy Homemaker

routine, and you take an hour to style and

_blow-dry_ your hair in the morning. At the

very least, you're batting both sides—and

you wouldn't have put up with my crap all

these years if you didn't have some completely

stupid reason.

WILSON

(affronted)

It isn't—

HOUSE

(flatly)

It isn't _rational_. But it never is.

Wilson moves a few inches closer to House and puts his feet up. There's another (awkward) silence: neither is sure exactly how best to broach this topic. Finally, Wilson speaks.

WILSON

Do you…?

The tone suggests that the missing words are in the neighborhood of 'feel something,' but he damn well knows better than to put it that way.

HOUSE

(sighs)

Look. Neither this goddamn singing nor your

spilling your guts to me is going to make me

into a person who likes sharing of feelings.

The only time I even consider it is when

I'm post-coital and swimming in enough

endorphins to drown my brain, and that

is not the case here. Bottom line is, we know

each other and still work.

WILSON

But could we work together?

On cue, guitar chords begin to play. This time, the interruption visibly annoys House and Wilson both.

[SONG: WHERE DO WE GO FROM HERE? to the eponymous tune.]

WILSON

_Where do we go from here?_

House's part is lower, but harmonizes.

HOUSE

_Where do we go from here?_

BOTH

_We've confessed but have not yet guessed_

_Where that leaves us—it's not clear._

_Where do we go from here?_

_Should we be friends, or more?_

_What is there still in store?_

HOUSE

_Not so grand when it's all unplanned_

WILSON

_And we're on a new frontier…_

They share a look of some relief at the realization that at least their uncertainties are more or less the same.

HOUSE

_Tell me…_

WILSON

_Where do we go from here?_

HOUSE_:_

_If romance must appear,_

_Can friendship persevere?_

For him, that's the core question. Wilson replies:

WILSON

_If we suppose that it can, God knows_

_We will have nothing to fear…_

_Where do we go from here?_

_Where do we go from here?_

House has the last word.

HOUSE

_Where do we go from here?_

The song ends. House and Wilson regard each other, neither gaze readable.

HOUSE

(flatly)

Let's assume we don't need to continue

that conversation.

WILSON

Shouldn't we? You hate the music because

it forces you to be open and honest about

what you feel—but isn't that actually desirable

in a relation—?

Unable to take the additional aggravation of a psychoanalytic lecture so soon after the song, House cuts Wilson off by crushing their lips together. It's not tender—in fact, it probably almost bruises—but it gets the job done. After several seconds, they separate. Wilson stares at House, vaguely stunned.

WILSON

What was that?

HOUSE

A good interruption.

WILSON

But not a great kiss.

HOUSE

Wasn't supposed to be.

Soft piano music begins to play in the background. The two give each other appraising looks, seem to come to a decision, then lean slowly closer to one another, singing in undertones: House with the main melody, Wilson in counterpoint.

[SONG: CODAto the eponymous tune.]

HOUSE

_The music's gone on long enough…_

_And now I know I've made a choice._

_Give silence voice,_

_Maybe some wounds might heal._

WILSON

_I dared_

_To tell you how I feel._

_I know this is real._

BOTH

_We'll go forward from here._

A jubilant instrumental finish coincides with the meeting of lips—in a proper kiss this time, one that's lengthy and carries the weight of unspoken words.

The camera pans across the room to a calendar, and a breeze blows in through the window and flips the pages ahead six months in that tried-and-true means of signifying the passage of time. Then we pan back to House and Wilson, still in House's apartment. It's evening, and the two are sitting in companionable silence on the sofa. The TV is on, but the volume is low and neither is really paying attention to it.

HOUSE

So, how're the chances of macadamia nut

pancakes for breakfast tomorrow?

Wilson half-smiles, regards House levelly.

WILSON

About as good as the chances of your going

out for more flour.

There's a pause as House mulls that over and decides he doesn't want the pancakes quite badly enough to work for them.

HOUSE

(decisively)

I'll settle for an omelet.

WILSON

Thought so. Anyway, I think you unsettle

your minions when you eat those pancakes.

(raised eyebrow)

Something about disturbing facial expressions?

House attempts to play innocent and (of course) fails.

HOUSE

Can I help it if your cooking borders on orgasmic?

(seriously)

And it only unsettles _one_ minion—which it wouldn't

do if she hadn't been stupid enough to walk in on us

in your office.

Wilson flushes at the memory.

WILSON

That incident was your fault.

They've had this discussion before.

HOUSE

Will you never let that go? Jeez. We weren't

even indecent.

(beat)

And anyway, _you_ were the one who didn't

lock the door.

WILSON

(dryly)

Forgive me for not expecting to be—

_pounced on_ in the middle of my paperwork.

HOUSE

(leering)

I don't remember you complaining.

He scoots closer to Wilson, apparently considering some suitably lewd action to match his tone, but is stopped short by a winds introduction: the music is back, and his mood shifts instantly from turned on to horrified.

HOUSE (cont'd)

Oh, _God_.

[SONG: SOMEHOW IT WORKS to the tune of "I'll Be Mrs."]

_WILSON:_

_Six months now together:_

_Somehow I thought it would be a change,_

_But so little's different, it's strange._

We pan out a bit, notice some small differences: coats hung up, clear floor, a couple of little knick-knacks, obviously Wilson's, among House's (neat on the shelves) books. The apartment is now obviously shared space.

Zoom in on House and Wilson again.

WILSON (con'td)

_So much is just routine—_

_It's comfortable to be a pair._

_Guess potential was always there._

He addresses the camera but looks at House with some fondness.

WILSON (cont'd)

_He's still a jerk; I'm still his friend_

_He lives to irk; I know to bend_

_Same old at work (so we pretend)._

_No one asks why,_

_But I'd reply_

_That it all works out._

_Somehow it all works out._

(beat)

_Maybe we're a bit odd, but there's nothing we can't weather._

House takes over the melody.

HOUSE

_Six months now together:_

_Easy enough, this whole couple thing_

_(That is, when we don't have to sing)._

Wilson smirks.

HOUSE (cont'd)

_I still drive him crazy—_

_But it's nothing he doesn't expect_

_And despite it all, we connect._

_He cleans our place and keeps me fed,_

_He's quick-witted and great in bed,_

_And what more than that need be said?_

_If asked just why_

_I would reply,_

_That it all works out._

_Somehow it just works out._

(dryly)

_We survive each other: there's nothing we can't weather._

WILSON

_We know by now_

_The take-and-give_

_That governs how_

_We choose to live._

_There's no more denial_

_We've given this a trial,_

_And know he and I'll still fight and forgive._

HOUSE

_This partnership, it works out well_

(smirking)

_Although we are mismatched as hell_

_And he can still be—I'll never tell!—_

_All those events,_

_Now they make sense._

BOTH

_It all works out._

_Yes, somehow it works out._

_It works out..._

The music ends. There's a pause; the two exchange glances.

WILSON:

I'll go get the flour if you don't take an extra pill

to make up for the aggravation of the song.

Even here, it seems, they're able to compromise a little. House considers, then nods.

HOUSE:

Done.

(suggestively)

And after dinner, I pick up where the music cut in.

Wilson grins, nods, gets up and heads for the door. House bestows an openly affectionate smile on his retreating back, then slumps against the sofa cushions as we…

FADE TO BLACK.

**FINIS.**


End file.
